There is a riverside forest of tree stumps
now deep in bright green moss
where once oaks were felled and
floated downriver to harbour workshops,
and here, the little girl who senses
the old push and pull in flowing water,
foresees the river’s journey
to the oceans of the world.
She spreads her fingers, hovers them
just above the water
like dragonflies
until she feels the familiar tug
as the water reaches up,
pulls her hands under,
sucks the knuckles out of their sockets,
and the little girl, sharing the magnet
in the salmon’s brain –
embraces the old push and pull. Irresistible.
She knows to let the current
lead her where she wills it,
launching her migrating mind
down her swaying unanchored fingers
along the river’s course
towards the heaving seven seas –
until her brain’s spawn senses
the creaking of ropes,
the slapping of sails,
the sour sweet smell of tar,
the taste of salt on the lips,
the heave under ship’s wood
of dangerous waves,
a tangle of rigging,
the snapping of a swaying mast,
oak timbers splintering.
She feels it all:
the old push and pull –
back to the pirate republics,
forward to the deep silent lurking
of nuclear armadas –
and all that springs from this river’s source.
